


P is for Punishment

by JuokasKurvas



Series: Pissing Games [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Urophagia, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6607981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuokasKurvas/pseuds/JuokasKurvas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Anders attempts multiple escapes with three successful breakouts the Ferelden Templars devise a creative punishment to encourage the wayward mage to toe the line in the future. A visiting Ser Otto Alrik from Kirkwall's circle decides to join in on the discipline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	P is for Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> I've tagged this as underage but have not specified an actual when this takes place (other than pre-harrowing, post third escape attempt) so it doesn't necessarily have to be read that way. My stories tend to be a bit grey on the consent at times but this is 100% non-consensual so do avoid if that makes you uncomfortable.

He had just been brought back to the tower for the third time, his third successful escape. Even Anders had lost count of the amount of times he had tried to escape since they’d ripped him away from his family what seemed like a lifetime ago. Likely they would have branded him already if he hadn’t shown such a strong aptitude in creation magic. Wynne had even suggested that he may potentially prove to be a spirit healer, though he was still too young and untrained to say for certain. Still, it was a rare enough talent that the order was hesitant to perform the rite and resorted to alternative punishments in order to curb his unruly tendencies. Yet all they did was ensure Anders was that much more determined to be free, and knowing the threat of the brand wasn’t hanging over his head, Anders had no qualms about waiting until after he was harrowed to attempt his escapes. If only he could find his phylactery, destroy it, but for now he knew they would always find him. He also accepted the fact that unless he made it to Tevinter, – an unlikely trek and one he wasn’t likely to find any help in managing – the circle was the only place he’d be able to finish his training. So he never made too much effort to stay hidden. Determined to show those outside the circle and outside the chantry the good magic could do, to hope one day he might be instrumental in inspiring change. Ser Rheiner was leading him to the dungeons; clearly it would not be cleaning duty this time around. Perhaps it would be a lashing; other mages had been beaten for less. Though other mages weren’t as important to the First Enchanter and the venerated collective of circle healers as Anders knew he was. Would corporal punishment really be his fate after only three cheeky escapes?

            “Greagoir has given us leave to be more creative in our punishments this time, in the hope that we might motivate you to understand why it is in your best interest to follow what are very simple rules,” Rheiner chastised, pulling Anders down by his ponytail.

            “Right, never see our families, never form families and never leave the circle until the day we die, having no say in what we will do with the rest of our lives. Simple,” Anders shot back sarcastically. Rheiner sneered but said nothing else as he shoved Anders into a small room at the bottom of the stairs. Inside two other Templars were waiting, though with their helmets on Anders wasn’t sure who they were, if he even knew them. He probably knew less than half of the Templars in the circle, and probably only as many as he did because of all the times he’d been punished for one infraction or another. Friendships between mages and Templars were neither common nor encouraged.

            Rheiner shoved him toward the other two Templars before leaving the room; apparently creative punishments didn’t interest him. Despite his enquiries the two left behind refused to give him a name or even tell him what they were going to do to him. One just shoved him roughly onto his knees while the other locked him into the manacles protruding from the wall. As soon as they were closed Anders sighed heavily, realising they were suppression cuffs. He hated the feeling of having his magic cut off, even if this was the worst of tranquillity – and it certainly wasn’t – Anders didn’t think he could stand life feeling this way. For however much magic had tainted his own life, it was a part of him, a part he loved, and a part he’d die to protect. Still, a few days in cuffs wouldn’t kill him, and the nearly 9 days he had spent free from the circle would still be worth it. They wouldn’t break him this easily.

            Once secured the two silent Templars left, still without a word about how long they would be leaving him here. Anders hated to be locked up, hated to be alone. Even as a child he had always been uncomfortable when left alone. At least then he had the cats, they would follow him whenever he wanted and he’d never felt alone. And his mother was almost always around; he’d been quite close to her before the Templars came. There’d always been a rift between him and his father, Anders had never had the same aptitude for swordsmanship that his older brothers displayed. Of course now he knew that his talents were elsewhere, not that that had endeared him to his father any, a devout man who had no use for barn burning or cursed children. Anders was almost starting to get depressed with his own thoughts when a Templar entered the room, helmeted so he was unsure if this was a new one or one of the two that had chained him. Maybe it was Rheiner although he looked a bit too tall to be the surly Knight-Captain. “Punishment done then?” Anders joked, doubting that a few hours in magic suppressing cuffs constituted creative.

            The Templar said nothing as he walked over to Anders, nothing as he unfastened his armour – and Anders humour started to subside as he worried where this might be going – nothing as he unfastened the breeches he wore underneath the metal skirt and still not a word while he pulled out his flaccid cock. Anders started to protest, which ended up being a poor move as it just made it all that much easier for the Templar to shove said cock into his mouth. Anders wasn’t unfamiliar with the sensation of a cock in his mouth, having one forced in without his permission was, however, something entirely new for him. He thought about biting the man, but knew that would probably only make things worse. The man was insane if he thought Anders was going to do anything for him though, keeping his jaw determinedly slack and his tongue still. It was only a few moments later that Anders realised that wasn’t what the Templar was after, a few moments later when he felt the familiar sensation of fluid trickling down his throat. Anders tried to spit the man out but the Templar simply fisted Anders ponytail and forced his head back, held him place while he finished relieving himself. When he finished he roughly removed his gauntlet from blond hair, ripping the hair tie and tearing out several strands of the mage’s hair before tucking himself away and leaving the room. Anders’ hair fell lose around his face as the mage tried and failed to choke back humiliated tears.

            The next few days were torture, Templars coming in, silently voiding their bladders, and retreating without a word to the mage no matter how much he begged, cried or screamed at them to stop, to at least tell him how long they were leaving him here. He thought they’d have to let him go from the wall at some point, but soon realised that wasn’t to be the case. On the second day he lost control of his own bladder, soaking himself and forced to now add the acrid smell of his own shame to the seemingly shrinking room. After that he gave up on trying to hold it when he needed to go, there was no longer a point. He tried to calculate how long it would take him to starve to death as they showed no signs that they were planning to feed him anytime soon. Dehydration would have been faster, but with Templars pissing down his throat on a regular basis he knew that would not likely be how he was going to go, as unrefreshing as his drinks may be. The hunger pains were uncomfortable, but by the fourth morning they seemed to subside, he got used to not eating, and he had more distracting vexations to focus on. The Templars came at all times of day and night, and while he was able to drift off to sleep while suspended by the chains he never got more than a few hours before another Templar showed up to take his turn. Anders felt like the whole tower was visiting, but he knew it was just eight. He hated that he knew, that he was becoming familiar with the taste, smell and feel of eight distinct phalluses. It was in the afternoon of the fourth day that his routine was finally broken up, though not for the better.

            Anders almost didn’t glance up as the door opened once more, pulling him from his doze and his blissful retreat into the fade. The Templar entering the room was different than the ones before, he was sure of it. The man wasn’t wearing his helmet and Anders didn’t know who he was. He may not know all the Templars in the Ferelden circle, but he knew he’d have remembered this man if he was stationed here. A new visitor and that couldn’t be a good thing. The man was tall, bald – and Anders had to wonder if that was intentional as he didn’t seem quite old enough to have naturally lost all his hair. More striking were the piercing blue eyes, cold and filled with arrogance, condescension and a hatred Anders had never seen cast his way before.

            “Good afternoon Anders,” the Templar greeted him familiarly, his voice as cold as his gaze. Four days ago Anders would have had a witty remark, not today though; today he just stared silently at his new visitor, wondering what exactly this man was going to do to him, why he was talking to him. “No greeting for a poor Templar? Or a witty remark even, I’ve heard you are famous for those Anders. I’ve heard a lot about you since I arrived yesterday evening, in case you weren’t aware why I might seem unfamiliar. I’ve come from Kirkwall, an emissary sent to Greagoir. He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on down here, I doubt he’d allow this which is a shame, this seems a very fitting punishment for a thing like you doesn’t it? Maybe I should take you back to Kirkwall with me, we’re much more adept at dealing with difficult mages.”

            Kirkwall, the man was from Kirkwall. Communication between the circles was limited, but from what little was known Kirkwall was easily regarded by the mages as the worst circle in which to reside. More mages were made tranquil there than anywhere else, more were executed and more were accused of blood magic. Maybe they really did fall to blood magic; given the rumours Anders couldn’t exactly blame them. Seeing the blue-eyed Templar, listening to his iced diatribe, Anders could understand what might tempt them. For the past few days Anders had begged for someone to just speak to him, to look at him. Now he’d give anything to be alone again, to be far from this Templar and his cruel stare.

            “My name’s Alrik, you should know that Anders, you should remember it. Think of me every time you think of disobeying in the future, think of me anytime you feel you aren’t being treated exactly as you deserve, anytime you feel mages, a blight upon our very world, deserve anything. We have far more tranquil in Kirkwall than you do here; frankly I see no reason to keep any of you the way you are. Too dangerous, too broken, such an offense to our Maker – better to strip you of your sins and find a useful place for you, but thus far I haven’t been able to get the right people to agree with me. No matter though, I am persistent, you can relate to that can’t you Anders? You are the perfect picture of persistence from what I hear. Let’s see if we can change that.”

            Alrik moved forwards and began to divest himself of his bottom layers, after days of this Anders shouldn’t feel the trepidation that he does, but this is different. He doesn’t know why, or even quite how, but he knows that it is. Alrik moves forwards and Anders just stares at him, he won’t open his mouth, he never does. It’s the only thing he’s had, the only manner in which he can refrain from acquiescing to the whims of those who would hurt him. However, this doesn’t bother Alrik, he doesn’t want Anders mouth. He points his member at Anders face, right between the eyes, and releases a steady stream onto the mages face. Despite the room wreaking with the scent of Anders own repeatedly voided bladder the assault offends his nostrils, and he flinches, eyes shut as he feels Alrik move his stream down from his face, to his throat, to his chest before lifting himself up again to ensure he finishes in Anders’ loose tendrils. Anders can’t help but tremble, horrified to find that there were still new ways for them to demean him, to make him feel less than human. Alrik demands that Anders open his eyes, and for some reason he does, afraid of what might happen if he tried defiance with this man.

            “What a good little mage you are, so obedient, perhaps the others weren’t quite right about you after all hmm? Let’s prove them wrong why don’t we, open your mouth Anders,” Alrik orders, placing his semi-hard cock between Anders’ pliant lips when he complies. Anders can taste the last few drips of salty urine as the head of Alrik’s penis slides across his tongue. Anders should know what Alrik wants next but his sleep-deprived brain, surging with fear induced adrenaline, is not able to process his own thoughts, only waiting for Alrik’s next order. Orders Alrik does not give, as the Templar merely indulges himself in plunging slowly into Anders mouth, his cock stiffening to full hardness with each languid thrust. After several minutes of Alrik slowly teasing himself with Anders lips and tongue, the mage finally responds. Not out of enjoyment, but because he wants this to end. Alrik was clearly in no hurry to end Anders’ torment; this left the young apprentice in the uncomfortable position of ending it himself, even if that meant submitting to the last person in Thedas to whom he would want to be vulnerable. He relaxed his throat and swallowed the whole of Alrik’s length, using his throat muscles to pleasure both head and shaft.

            “Mmm, that feels nice Anders, what a good little mage slut you are, why I think you are enjoying this aren’t you?” Alrik taunted as he continued to thrust, moaning as Anders deftly swirled his tongue around the head of the Templar’s cock, sliding the tip of his own tongue into the Templar’s slit and just lightly working his teeth against the retracted foreskin. He was not enjoying this, the only thing Anders had left to be grateful for. He couldn’t say that Alrik’s member was entirely unpleasant, the Templar has no strong odour or taste, and attached to anyone else Anders most certainly could enjoy performing this act. But he was still drenched in the fear and humiliation he’d felt earlier, could still feel Alrik’s cooling urine trickling down his cheeks and chin, so everything about this moment was perfunctory despite the fact that Anders’ skill might suggest otherwise.

            Alrik may have been determined to draw this out, but with Anders responding too readily he found he was unable to maintain his slow pace. Awash in bliss from the mage’s deft ministrations Alrik quickly found his release in the back of the tight throat engulfing his length. He pulled back near the end of his climax, spurting the last of his ejaculate onto the tip of Anders’ tongue, wanting to ensure the mage would remember his taste long after he’d left. “Good boy,” Alrik gasped, a bit breathless after such a shattering orgasm, “maybe you don’t need to be tranquil after all. The tranquil are so mechanical when you put them on their knees, you certainly have a few talents that may justify sparing you from the rite.” Anders glared at Alrik, awash in a new fury that displaced his earlier panic and disgrace as the Templar tucked himself back into his clothing. Alrik either didn’t notice or ignored the glare, turning heel he exited the room, leaving the mage alone with his anger and grief.

            The Templars left Anders in the room for another two days. Six of them continued to make use of him in the same manner as before, but two had clearly been inspired by Alrik, deciding to seek their own pleasure from the mage’s gifted tongue. Anders gave it to them; he saw no reason not to anymore. He’d lost, and while he wasn’t quite broken he knew on this occasion justice wouldn’t be his. Alrik had said Greagoir didn’t know what was going on here, but Greagoir probably wouldn’t believe him, or would at least pretend that he didn’t, even if Anders could find the words to explain what had happened. Anders was still determined to escape, but he wouldn’t be able to go through this again anytime soon, so he’d behave for now. He’d give them what they wanted no matter how much it pained him to do so.

            When they let him out it was during a mealtime, and so he was able to bathe alone, able to try and put together the brave face that would allow him to hide what happened from the other apprentices. He’d burned the robes he’d been wearing before throwing them in the bin, wishing it was as simple as that to rub the unclean feeling imbued in his skin. Over the next few days he looked at each Templar and wondered if they were one of the eight, and part of him couldn’t help but fear that underneath one of those helmets he’d find Alrik was still here, waiting in the corners for his next misstep, another chance to put him in his place. Just over six months later he escaped once more, success four. This time he wouldn’t make it so easy for them to find him, they would, that damn phylactery, but he wanted more than a week or two. He’d earned more than that. Although part of him was tempted to make his way to Kirkwall, there was a Templar there he never wanted to see again, and would never be able to let go until either he or Alrik breathed no more. If it was the last thing he ever did Anders vowed he would kill Ser Alrik, maybe not on this escape, but one day vengeance would be his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Apologies for any errors, terrible side consequence of being my own beta. I have disabled anonymous commenting, I am sorry but I've had problems with people using anonymity to be cruel rather than constructive so from now on I won't be allowing them on any new fics. For those who have wanted me to follow up Seven Minutes in the Void I promise I haven't forgotten it, but still a bit shattered from some of the hostility so I'm afraid I am going to keep putting that off until my thesis goes away (September is the aim/deadline) and/or I feel overwhelmingly inspired to continue. Hope something completely different will do for now.


End file.
